“Such a heavenly night!” Erard dropped his glasses and leaned against the parapet as if he had plenty of time for contemplation. He had accepted the idea of marriage with its possible inconveniences, yet he did not propose to be untactful, to place himself in the open by asking her to become Mrs. Erard. He would first bid her love him, as though he knew of no possible union for them. That was a finer stroke, and if Anthon had had sense enough not to chatter about their talk, all would go as he planned.
She was a fit possession to have, he reflected, as he watched her white face. She was striving, unsatisfied, keen-minded, and beautiful, with a reserve of feminine power, which even his insinuating wits couldn’t penetrate. She was John Anthon’s daughter, and had a hundred and fifty thousand from him, and a fool of a brother. She was Sebastian Anthon’s niece, and had two hundred thousand from him. Sebastian Anthon was the kind old fool who had supplied him with money to live on, as you’d give a boy pocket money; and then had turned him off to starve because he didn’t make enough of a sensation. She had been John Wilbur’s wife, and had deserted that pompous bourgeois at his suggestion because the successful Wilbur was too much of a stupid. He, Simeon Erard, held her in his hand as his ripe spoil.
“It is one great peace here,” he resumed. “I feel content, too. So much that I have striven for all these years since you first began your help to me has come about. I have been asked recently to contribute a series of articles to the new International Review. There is talk, I hear, of making me one of the sub-editors. That would necessitate our living in Paris part of each winter. The publishers have begun to print our book. I have the proofs of the first volume with me. We can run them over together this summer.”
He paused, surprised that she seemed so languid. “Doesn’t that interest you any more?” he asked suspiciously.
“Of course.” Mrs. Wilbur roused herself. “I am glad to know that your efforts are meeting with their reward. You are getting some of the prizes in your game.” A sudden whim made her add meaningly, “Now you can afford to look outside; you can do something for your father. Peter, you know, is gone. He died without getting the prizes.”
She could hear the gravel crunch under his feet as he turned swiftly from his idle stand by the parapet, but he answered tranquilly.
“What have they to do with the matter? Have I ever mentioned them to you? I will take care of them—him, in my own good time. You do not understand, Adela.”
“Oh, no! you never mentioned them to me. It occurred to me that in this new life of success, you might have time and means—to take Peter’s place.”
He did not reply. Her remarks seemed to make little impression on him. Instead, he drew near her, deliberately, watching her steadfastly.
“What I wish is that this new life shall bring me you.” He pronounced the words with slow emphasis. She remained numb, vaguely repeating his words to herself. He continued slowly: “We are made for each other.” Wilbur had said that. “You have the strong mind, and you know what living means.” Too well, alas! and he had taught her many a lesson. “We have lived this year as one person. You know my thoughts; I know yours.”